


Wear Your Heart on Your Skin

by Triodia



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoos, Families of Choice, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Profanity, Tattooed SMH
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-04 02:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12761643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triodia/pseuds/Triodia
Summary: A series of collected, sometimes connected, stories set in an AU of OMG Check Please! inspired by the following quote:"Wear your heart on your skin in this life." ~ Sylvia Plath(from Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams: Short Stories, Prose, and Diary Excerpts)It's not that their tattoos are meant to be secret, they just don't necessarily come up in conversation. Maybe everyone just wasn't paying close enough attention, but across years and country lines, each person's tattoos are revealed. Some of the stories are obvious, others less so...





	1. Derek "Nursey" Nurse - Grounded in Living (Skin)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all,  
> Since these stories are a) being written for NanoWrimo and b) sometimes connected and sometimes not, the order will probably be shuffled around/edited frequently. Sorry about that. Also, there be profanity ahead.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> Self Harm (Whiskey's Chapter)
> 
> Unbetaed (cause NanoWrimo...)
> 
>  
> 
> Also - I'm on [Tumblr](https://travel-to-the-crossroads.tumblr.com/)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A tattoo is a true poetic creation, and is always more than meets the eye. As a tattoo is grounded on living skin, so its essence emotes a poignancy unique to the mortal human condition." - V. Vale, Modern Primitives: An Investigation of Contemporary Adornment and Ritual
> 
> Tattoo: Right Bicep (per canon) 
> 
> Derek really needs to find his chill again. It (and some of his usual common sense) appears to be missing. How...unfortunate...

**Mid February 2014 - Andover, MA**

It’s not that Derek had ever been rebellious. He’s too aware of the consequences for that. But lately, he’s felt untethered, unmoored, more than a bit lost in translation (in transition). Logically, he understands that come August, he’ll likely be at an university playing D for the a men’s hockey team. He’ll have a place, but still…

When Derek passed the Underground House of Ink walking back towards the transit center on Saturday, he was struck by inspiration. Sure, he’d miss the 3:20pm bus for Andover, but… What better way to anchor himself than living skin? Derek left the shop an hour later with a design and a 1:15 pm appointment for the last Saturday in March.

**Late March 2014 - Andover, MA**

Derek can’t stop flexing his bicep. He wants to keep feeling the flashes of aching muscles each time he tenses. (He wanted the tattoo gun to keep going.) The tattoo isn’t very large, maybe four inches tall. Neither ordinary nor ostentatious, the traditional Navajo patterns curl elegantly around Derek’s upper arm, appearing to have always been part of his skin, his identity. For the first time since applying to college, Derek feels steady and certain again. His carefully cultivated aura of chill has resettled with the permanence of each inked line. A small, private smile sneaks across his face, ‘ _This was just what I needed...’_

**Early June 2014 - Manhattan, NY**

Ok, Derek maybe should’ve thought the tattoo thing through a little more, especially since he used parental money to pay for it. His moms being disappointed in him hadn’t crossed his mind; although, he’s reasonably certain they’re more disappointed that he technically used money primarily meant for school supplies and necessities than the tattoo itself. Derek sighs, _‘At least amá likes it. Not that amá could be angry at me for getting a tattoo - she has at least three. I just need to change mom’s mind...On the plus side, they didn’t see it until after graduation, which gives me the entire summer to figure it out. Maybe I can spin it as a late birthday present from me to me?’_

**August 2014 - Samwell University**

Derek has always been aware of art surrounding him - graffiti on signs and subway walls, manhole cover designs, billboards that could fit in at the Met, conversations filled with poignant clauses. Lately, he’s been hyper aware of tattoos. He’s fairly sure it’s an unintentional consequence of having his own ink and he’s definitely not complaining. He loves seeing mishmashes of styles, colors, and forms. Seeing an unexpected line poke out from a sleeve or collar or hem. Sometimes he feels like a voyeur. Sometimes he wants to shake the people he walks by, scream at them for putting their hearts so obviously outside their bodies, available for anyone to touch, for anyone to abuse. Derek hasn't purposefully looked (he's trying to be good about the unwritten locker room rules but some of his teammates are fine with a capital F), yet he wonders how many of his teammates have tattoos, wonders where they are.


	2. Shitty Knight - Altar Influence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tattooing is about personalizing the body, making it a true home and fit temple for the spirit that dwells inside it..." - Michelle Delio
> 
> Tattoo: Ribs - Infinity signs, anchors, and Shit's 3rd best friend Mary (After Lards and Jackabelle of course)
> 
> Shitty just wants to rebel against the man (his Dad - it's his Dad) and like he can cover up a tattoo, especially if it's under a shirt... But what to get? Huh. Well, his mom is always going on about body is a templ- wait. He's got it. This is gonna be good.
> 
>    
> [Shitty's Tattoo Art](https://travel-to-the-crossroads.tumblr.com/post/168156344976/b-shitty-knight-tah-dah-have-a-shitty-shitty)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to [asimpleline18](http://archiveofourown.org/users/asimpleline18/pseuds/asimpleline18) for the tattoo ideas!

_'This. Fucking. Dude.’_ Alex is about to beat her head against the fucking wall, “Look man, I’m going to say this one more time. Legally I cannot tattoo you when you’re under the influence. Lee-gal-ly. Also ethically, cause I’m not down with that.”

“I get you brah, but like, I’m under the influence of life. And bro - it’s beautiful.”

 _‘Holy shit,’_ Alex thinks viciously, _‘I swear to god if this dude doesn’t get out of here I’m going to jail for murder.’_ Pinching her nose, Alex sighs, “You really want a tattoo man? Come back when your cologne of choice isn’t eu de weed and Natty Light.”

“Brah! I am offended! What kind of bro do you take me for? I would never cheat on my PBR with the likes of Natty fucking Light,” he flounces towards the door mustache aquiver with repressed emotion, then whirls back to face her, “I’ll be back brah. Mark my fuckin’ words! But yeah, I’ll see you Thursday. Probably at like 4:30.”

The door slams open when he leaves and sticks there. A few seconds later, his head reappears mouthing ‘sorry’ as he gently closes it.  Alex’s eyebrow slowly rises in judgement, _‘What the everloving fuck.’_

 

By the time Thursday rolled around, Alex figured Weird Dude wasn’t coming back. Even given the oddly specific time mentioned, he was very, very far under multiple influences and probably didn’t even remember coming into the shop. Alex was wrong. Alex was very, very wrong. Alex was restocking ink supplies when a chill rolled down her spine. The door chimed, and she headed to the reception desk, freezing just inside the doorway. _‘Oh god. He came back. Why.’_ She checked the clock, laughing slightly hysterically, “You came back. Thursday at 4:30.”

“Chyeah brah! And I’ve got the sickest tat idea.”

Alex is one hundred percent going to regret asking but, “Ok. What were you thinking?”

“Ok. You ready brah? A marijuana infinity sign that’s like, the rope to an anchor. Cause like, weed changes how time happens, but like, time is fixed. Also, like they’re symbols commenting on the futile and endless fight against the weight of societal norms.”

 _‘What the hell. This. Fucking. Dude.’_ Alex’s eyebrow of judgment is rising again. Alex is in no way prepared to deal with this. Any of this. All of this. But, he’s a paying customer, and the customer is always right. Even when they are so full of bullshit you could smell it from space. She pinches her nose, “Ok. Uh - dude. Where do you want it and how big? Also, is this going to be an outline, grayscale, or colored? Cause all that changes the price.”

“The name’s Shitty. It’s going on my ribs, cause it’ll be satire on like forbidden fruit and all that creation shit. Probs like 8-10” long and 5” ish wide. And brah - we’re doing this in full fucking color with shading and everything. It’s gonna be a masterpiece.”

“...Shitty...Right. Ok, well, I, uh, need to go cr- go draw this up. Take a seat. I should be back in 30-45 minutes with a rough sketch,” Alex flips through the booking schedule, “Um. We don’t have any openings for today. If you want to get this soon, our next appointment opening is...next Wednesday from 2pm to 4pm with...me.”

“Chyeah! Right on. I’m good chilling.”

Checking in on Jameson and Micah’s appointments and tagging Luke to take the front, Alex walks to the sketch room. She pulls out her supplies, _‘I can’t believe I’m about to draw this shit. Social commentary my ass.’_ Less than a hour later, Alex still can’t believe this Shitty character, but he seems stoked about the quick sketch she did and locked in the Wednesday appointment. He gives a jaunty wave as he leaves, calling out a casual, “See ya next week brah.”

  
Alex realizes she’s succumbing to Shitty’s rather unusual charm when she thinks, _‘This fucking dude,’_ with a fond shake of her head rather than skeptical irritation.


	3. Jack Zimmermann - Property of Canada

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tattoos are a permanent commitment of passion." - Tawny Lara
> 
> Tattoo: Butt - Canadian Flag Maple Leaf (Partially inspired by this [extra](http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com/post/57706744022) and [this extra](http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com/post/90200272302))
> 
> Jack really loves Canada ok?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to [animalasaysrauer](https://animalasaysrauer.tumblr.com/) for the tattoo idea!

**9:43 AM, Saturday, July 5, 2014 - Westin Harbour Castle Hotel, Toronto, Canada**

_‘Tabernak.’_ Jack groans, burying his face further into his hotel pillow only to flail upright in time with a jarring snore. ‘ _Who the fuck?’_ He thinks wildly. “Shitty. Right. Fourth of July.” He shoves aside sheets and stands, rubbing throbbing temples. Jack stumbles one step towards the bathroom and freezes at a sudden pang from his lower body. A niggling sense of dread causes Jack to unfreeze and dart to the bathroom, slamming the door closed behind him. He turns so his back faces the mirror, breathes deeply, turns to look and goes sheet white. There, centered on his left buttcheek, is a 2” Canadian flag maple leaf with the words “Property of Canada” scripted beneath. _‘Calisse de cristo. Maman is going to kill me.’_

Jack is still staring at the maple leaf when Shitty wanders into the bathroom scratching at his waistband.

“Morning Jackabelle.Your ass is lookin’ **mighty** colorful this morning.”

“Shitty,” Jack grinds out, “Where did this come from?”

“Well, dearest Jacky-boy, you and Rans decided you needed to commemorate your Canadian Pride™ after associating with Holster and my most epic 4th of July celebration. The place was called Pearl Harbor Tattoo - your choice ‘cause, and I quote “They musht be the besht. They undersht - undersht - they **know** hishtory and importiant thingys.” You and Rans were burning with Canadian patriotism and according to Rans, “Jack. Jack. The Zimmerassh ish a Canadian treashure. Beshidesh, you cansh put Olympic ringsh ‘bove it.” Honestly, I think that is what sold you.”

Shitty sighs happily and wipes a pretend tear, “I’m so fuckin’ proud of you Jack! Making impulsive decisions and being your true Canadian self - so proud!”

Jack braces himself, looks again, and stalks off to call Ransom.

 

 **Sunday, June 29, 2014 -** **Montréal–Pierre Elliott Trudeau International Airport**

“You could’ve just texted back Rans,” Jack laughs as he answers the call.

“Bro - I could not _just_ _text back_ when THE Jack Zimmerman, Canadian National Treasure, has asked to spend Canada Day with me. It’ll be the highlight of my life - a celebration to end all celebrations! Oh yeah, Holster will be there, by which I mean, Holster is already here and says hi. Yes, Jack says hi back. Anyway, let me know when you hit the Six and what times you’re free. I’ll start planning. Later bro.”

* _buzz*_ _*buzz*_ * _buzz*_ _*buzz*_ * _buzz*_

**From: Shitty Knight (12:01 PM)**

Brah.

**From: Shitty Knight (12:01 PM)**

Save me.

**From: Shitty Knight (12:02 PM)**

I can not fuckin’ stand another day in this goddamn house.

**From: Shitty Knight (12:03 PM)**

Tell me I can come visit.

**From: Shitty Knight (12:04 PM)**

I’ll celebrate freakin’ Canada Day like a fuckin’ moose riding, maple syrup bleeding, Canadian.

Just. Save.Me.

**To: Shitty Knight (12:07 PM)**

I’m about to be in Toronto for the next week and a half to meet with my agent and do some training.

Ransom and Holster are both here. If you came up, you could share my hotel room?

 _*buzz*_ * _buzz*_

**From: Shitty Knight (12:33 PM)**

Done. The good ship Holsom is down. We’re doing a Canada Day/Fourth of July 2014 Extravaganza. It’s gonna be ‘swawesome!

**From: Shitty Knight (12:34 PM)**

Landing at 8AM. See you tomorrow you beautiful fucker.


	4. Larrisa/Lardo Duan - Dissonance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We swallowed the chaos because we knew we didn’t want to be ordinary." - Robert M. Drake
> 
> Tattoo: Back – Vietnamese styled silk hand fan, cranes, blooming lotus 
> 
> Larissa is a skin that stifles, the box Pandora was never supposed to open (but she did). Lardo...Lardo is what remains after all the other evils have fled. Lardo is hope (nothing has ever sounded as sweet as Lardo on their tongue).  
>  
> 
> [Tattooed Lardo Art](https://travel-to-the-crossroads.tumblr.com/post/166726920811/tattooed-lardo-well-this-happened-last-month-and)

Dissonance (noun):

1a: lack of agreement, inconsistency between the between the beliefs one holds or between one’s actions and one’s beliefs

b: an instance of such inconsistency or disagreement

2 : a mingling of sounds that strike the ear harshly, a mingling of discordant sounds, a clashing or unresolved musical interval or chord

* * *

 

Dissonance suits them. They never wore expectations well. Never could subscribe to the normalized narrative of an immigrant’s child. Never bought into the carefully laid path. Never suited Larissa, not a boy but not a girl either. (Too bold, too independent, too stubborn).

They are the vertice between Vietnam and the USA, the collision of cultural appreciation and appropriation. They are everything their parent’s wanted except... (Not a son. Not intelligent enough. Not. Not. Not.) They are tired of being not enough, hearing not enough, seeing not enough. If they are not enough, instead they will be spaces between. The point of a needle before it pricks, the edge of a blade before it cuts. They will own their dissonance, sow chaos and bring order. They will be the pane of glass, looked out of and into - a mirror, a window, a reflection to reflect on. They will guard their heritage in cupped palms, while letting it trickle through their fingers to color everything they touch. _They will be creation and destruction and will revel in the in-between._

They remember choosing passion over prosperity, art over everything else. (A thread snapped). A 6 month long nuclear war (“Why are you doing this? Why are you dishonoring your family? Why didn’t you pick something to support your family?”). They fought for their chance to dream, to grow beyond straight lines and predetermined paths. They wrote and searched and applied and became financially independent and - finally, finally! - gathered enough scholarships to pay their way through college unassisted. They _won._

 

They left.

 

They left. (Left behind, left alone, left alive, left intact).

 

They stopped sharing their history so freely. Gave crumbs rather than feasts. They became creation and destruction and reveled in the in-between. They fabricated beauty, bedazzled glory, splattered joy, carved sadness. They built wonders and never slowed down. (Don’t slow down. Don’t stop. Stop thinking.) They built a world of canvas and sculpture, never realizing they were forming an inescapable mirror. A portfolio of dissonance. Of distance. (Left behind, left alone, left alive, left intact).

They found Lardo, not a man yet not quite a woman, but a perfect fit. Granted, they didn’t know what to do with the Samwell Men’s Hockey Team, but they would figure it out. And Lardo did. They found home, found acceptance, found enough. And bit by bit, Lardo started sharing their history again. They began crafting a piece too personal, too reflective for mass consumption. Layers of dissonance - heritage and history and choice.

Staring at the colorful eddies and swirls sweeping from right shoulder blade to left iliac crest, Lardo thinks they fit their skin for the first time. Stark black outlines of their story. A silk fan draping across their shoulder trailing into waves of fabric falling down their spine before meeting a blooming lotus. Unchanging black filled with watercolor galaxies spilling outside the lines.

Yes, dissonance suits them. They never did wear expectations well. Never could subscribe to the normalized narrative of an immigrant’s child. Never truly bought into a carefully laid path. Never suited Larissa.

 

Lardo was always the spaces between, the meeting points: a cross of Vietnamese and American, a collision of cultural appreciation and appropriation. Lardo was always enough.

 

Lardo left. This time knowing they have a home to return to.


	5. William "Dex" Poindexter - Heart in Your Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Our bodies were printed as blank pages to be filled with the ink of our hearts." - Michael Biondi
> 
> Tattoo: Chest – Claddagh
> 
> There are the usual family traditions, then there are the Poindexter's. Started winter break of freshman year, Dex finally finished his contribution December of sophomore year.  
>  
> 
> [Tattooed Dex Art](https://travel-to-the-crossroads.tumblr.com/post/167644441941/tattooed-dex-in-the-midst-of-my-nanowrimo)

Dex always wears a shirt. Ever since Hazeapalooza, it’s become another random fact of the Samwell Men’s Hockey team. It slots neatly into place with the other absolutes Derek knows: Fffffuuuuccckk the LAX bros, Shitty dislikes clothing, Holster adores 30 Rock, Ransom is a precious coral reef, Tango questions everything, Chowder loves the Sharks, Bitty bakes, nobody messes with Jack’s PB&J pregame sandwich, Dex always wears a shirt.

It’s chill. The only reason Derek even realizes the shirt is a **thing** is due to Dex’s everything being contradictory and captivating. ‘ _An unwitting muse – catnip to artist’s everywhere,_ ’ Derek grumbles. Flashes of pale skin shifting over muscle and freckles peeking out whenever Dex’s shirt rides up, a temper that could rival natural disasters, and enough personal integrity to make a soul weep. No one has ever kept Derek’s attention this long – he’s more than willing to remain captive. He just needs to remember his boundaries, _‘You can think it, not say it; look, don’t touch.’_ And if sometimes, when Dex is wearing shirts worn thin from endless cycles of washing, Derek imagines the black of ink dripping down rather than collarbone shadows, well that’s just him projecting deep-seated fantasies. ‘ _Besides,_ ’ he chuckles, _‘There’s no way Dex - Catholic, anal retentive, never-spend-money-on-frivolous-shit Dex - has a tattoo._ ’

So, Derek knows Dex always wears a shirt. Always. However, in early February of sophomore year, Dex just...doesn’t. It’s chill. Dex not wearing or wearing a shirt has nothing to do with Derek. Except – from where Derek’s sitting in his stall, he can devour the roadmap of Dex’s spinal column; the gorgeous definition of traps, lats, and delts pulling his eyes to clusters of freckles taunting his mental control. ‘ _This is why I have rules_ ,’ Derek thinks fervently, wrenching his gaze away for a few precious seconds before he succumbs to the urge and stares again.

As a bisexual hockey player, Derek has seen (and ignored) attractive, shirtless guys in numbers that are frankly astonishing, but Dex is his very own kryptonite filled nirvana. A paradise Derek desperately seeks, knowing it (Dex) will kill him. Derek rests his elbows on his knees, pushing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets and repeating his mantra, _‘It’s chill. You are chill. Everything is chill. He is not for you. Not yours. Not for you. Chill Nurse. Be chill.’_ The rowdy call and response of the locker room slowly fades to white noise; a brief flurry of exclamations and wolf whistles prick Derek’s curiosity, but is forgotten with the next rise and fall of his breathing.

 

 

A tape ball smacks into his bowed head, “Yo Nursey – you ok man? Practice wasn’t that rough.”

‘ _Shit. Dex is talking to me. Dex is shirtless talking to me. Get it together Nurse! You can do this. Just look at his face and act normal_.’ Derek presses against his eyes once more, then drags his palms down his face as he tilts his head up and looks towards Dex, “It’s chill. I’m goo–.”

‘ _Fucking hell_ . _Fuck me_.’

There’s Dex. Lounging in his stall only wearing a smirk and the same skintight shorts as usual, ink covered chest on display.

‘ _Words. I need words. What was I saying? Fuck. This must have been what the whistles were about earlier… Oh god. Were those shorts always that obscene or did the increase in available skin make them skimpier? Focus Nurse! Finish your sentence. When did he get a tattoo? Fuck. Just fucking fuck_ ,’ Derek’s gaze bounces from Dex’s face to his shorts and back, then locks onto his massive chest piece.

He rasps out through an inexplicably dry throat, “I’m good Dex. I’m just fine.” Derek’s voice dies out as Dex cocks a disbelieving eyebrow. It’s fine. Derek is fine. Derek is _fine._ Derek is decidedly _not_ fine. ‘ _He has a tattoo. Dex has a tattoo,’_ Derek shuts his eyes, whimpering, ‘ _I’m going to die. Dex can’t have a tattoo.’_

A brass chuckle snaps Derek’s eyes open again, focusing on predatory amber in front of him. He feels like prey, caught motionless between fight or flight, emotional candor or logical deception.

“Cat got your tongue Nursey? You’re usually more articulate, and I thought for sure you’d have something to say about this,” Dex teases, fingers tapping the black lines along his clavicle. _God damn_ does Derek want to taste that line, sample every inch of tattooed flesh his eyes are devouring.

Gathering shredded remnants of composure, Derek starts to speak honestly, “It’s beauti–”

 A magically clothed Shitty interrupts, parking himself in front of Dex, exclaiming wildly, “William J. Poindexter. Dex. My bro – you’ve been holding out on us! When did you get this most ‘swawesome of ink? And why were we, you’re ride or die bros, not informed?” Derek mentally completes his thought, ‘ _It’s beautiful Dex. Just like you.’_ Unwilling to try again, Derek picks flight this time, tuning into Dex’s explanation as he slowly wanders toward the showers.

“Well,” Dex confesses quietly, “I started the outline during Winter Break last year and finished the entire thing over break this year. Took two sessions, probably 10 hours or so of work.” He shrugs, rubbing his neck, “Technically, Celtic tattoos are a bit of a family tradition, a reminder of where we came from. Everyone who’s old enough has one. Ma’s got a harp. Pa has the Celtic cross. Dierdre chose a Tree of Life. Ciaránn picked a shield with the Dara. They don’t have them yet, but the twins, that’s Caitriona and Seamus, have started planning theirs – they were looking at knot work ravens last I heard. Aoife is still too young to understand really. But yeah, I uh, I didn’t want anyone to see it before my family, and I wanted them to see the finished piece.”

“Goddamn bro…Must’ve hurt a fuck ton. Mad respect. Mad fucking respect. And bro, your family is ‘swawesome! Only the radest of rad family’s rock tats together.” Shitty solemnly reaches out for a fist bump before turning towards the doorway, “Yo – Lards! Did you see this shit? Fucking ‘swawesome right?”

“Sweet ink Poindexter. That’s some impressive shading. Interesting subjects...” Lardo raises a brow in question.

“Yeah, um. It’s a family ode of sorts. My parents are the eagles - I guess more their immigration to the US and how we’re American now. The pursuit of freedom and choice. Each flower is for a sibling, the outer ones are Seamus and Caitriona, Aoife is protected in the center, with Dierdre and Ciaránn keeping the peace between them all. The crown for fortune and loyalty. Kind of a prayer that my family may continue to be blessed with love and opportunity, but also a reminder to stay loyal to myself and what matters most to me. The ship is me in a sense. It’s uh, well... it’s a reminder to challenge fate, to be willing to voyage knowing I’ll always have a safe harbor in the heart of the Claddagh – that’s the hands. In Irish folklore, the position of the Claddagh tells everyone your relationship status, here I’m using it as a symbol of friendship, unconditional love, and safe harbor. Technically, this orientation doesn’t translate since it’s not on a hand, but...” Dex’s voice fades to inaudible murmurs as Derek enters the showers.

 

 

‘ _Empty. Guess everybody cleared out fast today. Thank god_ ,’ Derek sighs and turns on a shower, stepping into the spray. Perfunctorily scrubbing down his body, Derek allows himself a fleeting moment of fantasy – Dex beneath the spray with him, droplets transforming hair from fire bright to sanguine before winding over defined muscle. Derek shakes his head, cranking the water hotter in a vain attempt to relax, ‘ _He is not for you. Not yours. Not for you.’_

Derek feels not quite soothed, but slightly more controlled when he reenters the locker room and freezes; his veneer of chill immediately ripped away by the sight he’s confronted with – Dex, gloriously exquisite Dex, is tucked into Derek’s stall. He’s the picture of temptation: auburn hair mussed from nervously raking hands, head bowed down with hands now resting clasped in his lap, torso no longer proudly on display yet still shirtless, bare feet peeking from beneath jeans he changed into. Some pathetically strangled sound must’ve escaped Derek then, because Dex’s body surges out of Derek’s stall, head snapping up.

 _'He's flushing,_ ' Derek dimly notes, watching Dex take on a ruddy hue from face to chest. Dex is still standing motionless in front of Derek’s stall when Derek stumbles to a halt a foot away, holding his towel for dear life. They speak simultaneously, “What were you going to–“ and “Can I get my–“ crashing into each other in the air between them.

Body tense, Dex clenches and releases his hands three times, before speaking, “Can’t a guy wait for his partner? You still seem kind of spacey Nurse.” His voice is carefully wiped of every emotion except faked irritation. As Dex moves aside, Derek surreptitiously watches him collapse inward– spine folding, shoulders slumping, eyes blankly downcast, and arms crossed protectively. Small is not a word Derek has ever associated with Dex, but now it flashes through his brain, ‘ _Small. Subdued. Defeated. Wrong. Why. What could force...’_ Derek’s mind flashes to Dex’s earlier borderline blatant teasing, his stance adjusting from openly displayed to guarded, Dex’s cut off “What were you going to–,“ and he wonders.

In mockery of how uncomfortable Dex appears, Derek suddenly feels in control of the situation for the first time. He reaches out, wanting to soothe, to reassure. Derek marvels absentmindedly, mind still swirling with possibilities, “It’s beautiful Dex. Just like you. How could I find you anything but magnificent?” His fingers hover centimeters over inked contours until his palm comes to a stop directly above the Claddagh heart, unaware he’s musing aloud. The chest beneath his hand sucks in a sharp breath, diaphragm expanding, defensive posture relaxing. No one else deserves to hear the quiet, shaky, “Derek,” Dex exhales, eyes liquid honey. Derek closes his eyes, savoring the sound. He could write sonnets, no novels about the whisper of his name falling from Dex’s mouth.

“I need to- No wait. I - Can I,” Derek swallows, “Dex, I would like to touch you. Can I?”

Dex laughs, a breathless thing, “Yes. Can I…?”

Derek nods frantically, but doesn’t close the distance between them. Dex laughs again, bringing his left hand up to cover Derek’s right, intertwining fingers before firmly pressing their hands to Dex’s chest, hiding the tattooed heart. Fingertips of Dex’s other hand trip down Derek’s rib tattoo, fidget with his towel, then settle at his hip with a squeeze. Derek shivers at the light touch. Slowly, Derek fits his left hand around the back of Dex’s neck, thumb stroking down his sternocleidomastoid muscle, and presses their foreheads together, “Tell me what you want Dex. I’ll take anything, everything you’ll give me.”

Dex just gives a small shrug and says, “You.”

Derek’s heart tries to escape its cage of bone. He’s pretty sure the human body cannot contain this much joy. His face is probably doing something stupid, but Dex wants him. Glorious, exquisite Dex wants _him._

“Dex. Dex. Can I kiss you? I’ve wanted to kiss you for months. I want to date you. Do you want that? We can go to Annie’s and you can explain how to fix the dryer and I can read you all the poetry I’ve written about your everything. But I should probably kiss you first, I mean, assuming you want that. It’s fine if um you don’t, but please, please, please may I kiss you?,” Derek’s jumbled babbling peters out to a whisper.

He shuts his eyes in embarrassment as his cheeks start to burn, ‘ _Oh god. What was that word vomit? Fuck. I didn’t mean to say all that...well, I did mean all that, but this was probably the wrong time to say it. This is why you can’t have nice things Nurse._ ’

Nursey tries to pull away, sliding his hand off Dex’s neck and attempting to unlace the fingers against Dex’s chest.

Dex tightens their locked fingers, pushing harder against his skin, “Hey, look at me. Derek, please look at me. There you are.”

Lips quirked in a small smile, Dex waits for Derek to meet his eyes, “I want to kiss you too. I’d love to date you. Let’s go to Annie’s so you can get whatever chocolate monstrosity you’re into this week. I hope the dryer doesn’t break again, but if it does I’ll try to explain how to fix it.”

Dex’s right hand cups Derek’s cheek and tugs him close again. This time it’s Dex’s thumb caressing the sharp lines of a cheekbone. He tilts his head to the side, brushing his mouth to Derek’s ear, “And Derek, I can’t wait to hear what you’ve written, but first...”

His mouth slides across flushed skin, then Dex kisses him.

 

  
Derek knows Dex still sometimes wears a shirt. But he never wears one when they’re alone. Never. It’s chill. Dex not wearing or wearing a shirt sometimes has to do with Derek now, and how Dex shivers every time Derek runs his fingers over the black lines before kissing the negative spaces. How Derek devours the celestial map of Dex’s clustered freckles, leaving a trail of nips and flowering hickeys. Derek is an excellent navigator of the gorgeous dips and curves of Dex’s obliques and clavicles, the taut skin over his iliac crest. ‘ _Goddamn. This is why we have rules,_ ’ Derek thinks fervently a month later, wrenching his gaze away for a few precious moments of reading before he succumbs to the urge and stares again at Dex, dozing on his back half-naked, splayed across Nursey’s navy duvet.


	6. Chris "Chowder" Chow - Fortune Favors the Faithful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A man without tattoos is invisible to the Gods." - Iban Proverb, Mingatt Anak Casa (Borneo)  
> Tattoo: Upper Thigh – Nine tailed fox, tails wearing masks, Chinese symbols for luck tied in (maybe shadows form a shark???)
> 
> Christopher Franklin Chow is the last person anyone would dream of suggesting as a candidate for a tattoo.

Christopher Franklin Chow is the last person anyone would dream of suggesting as a candidate for a tattoo. There is not a single person who has met Chowder who would put money on it, which is precisely why it comes a such a shock when he drinks during the “Never Have I Ever” portion (“Jesus Nursey - you’ve pulled every single fucking five...“) of King’s Cup during junior year.

Chris finishes his sip of hard cider before clueing into the the abrupt silence around him. ‘ _Damn it,’_ he swears mentally, _‘I thought I was going to get away with that sip. Shit. I really don’t want to explain this. How do I explain this? Maybe I can just brush it off as a normal thing?’_ He slowly lowers his bottle, “Guys - why are you all staring at me? Did I miss the next question?”

Dex opens and closes his mouth before responding, “Uh, you haven’t missed anything… but Chowder, you know the last question was for permanent tattoos, not temporary ones, right?”

“Duh.” Chris rolls his eyes and tries valiantly to redirect the conversation, “What’s the next question or did someone finally lose?”

Tango interrupts, looking confused, “Wait. I thought everybody knew?” Several things occur simultaneously. Nursey makes a jerky, flailing movement. Dex raises one excessively surprised eyebrow. Bitty’s loses his grip on his red solo cup. Ollie and Wicks fistbump. Whiskey’s face remains impassive. Ford heaves a resigned sigh, already rubbing her temples. Chris lets out a breath when heads swivel to look at Tango instead, _‘Fucking. Tango. This is going to suck.’_ A brassy laugh echoes through his ears. _‘Thanks for all the help,’_ Chris pouts.

 

“This is the definition of unchill.”

“Goddamnit Tango!!! What the fuc-”

“What in the deep fried hell...”

“Dude.” “Bro.” “Swawesome.”

“.....------.....”

“I am surrounded by children.”

“It’s not like it was a secret! Was it?”

 

Chowder successfully sneaks away in the ensuing confusion, cognizant of a renewed and distinct sense of empathy for Ford.

 

* * *

 

Chris is about to punch his teammates in their stupid faces. He understands him having a tattoo is a Big Deal to them, something about ruining the stereotypical Asian manchild image, which fuck that. But - it’s personal. There’s a reason he hasn’t been flashing it all around the locker room. There’s a reason he never said anything. It’s personal and they _should_ be respecting his privacy. Not ambushing him every 10 seco-

 

“Is it a shark - It’s gotta be a shark right?”

-nds. Chris is going to punch someone in the face.

“No, Wicky. It’s not.”

“Is it on your ass?”

“Nah - We would’ve seen that in the locker room Wicky.”

“Oh. Good call Ollie… Dude. No. Chowder. PROMISE ME YOU DIDN’T TATTOO YOUR DICK. PROMISE MEOOooow!!! Dude! C’mon man, don’t punch a bro for looking out.”

 

Punching definitely isn’t enough. Chris is going to be suspended for beating the shit out of his entire fucking team.

 

* * *

 

When Chris learned to skate at Faber, he had no idea how his life would come full circle. He loved listening to his yeye’s narrate the rise and fall of ancient Chinese deities, the creation of faith, weave tales of heroes and legends. As he sat there, enthralled year after year, his yeye would tell him, “You’re special, Fortune favors you. Give thanks for that favor, always take the time to honor those who help you.”

Chris didn’t understand then, at 5, 8, 10, 13. He was too young, too absorbed in himself. It dawned on him around 15 that his yeye’s stories were often encouraging him to be kind and appreciative of the opportunities and relationships in his life. Chris began paying closer attention to the little things, which helped him on and off the ice. His blades were always perfectly sharpened, he didn’t have a single equipment failure the entire year, sometimes he just knew where the puck was going to be when there’s a screen in front of him, his mom got a promotion that meant he went to hockey camp, any marks on his pads reformed into what looked like paw prints.

At 20, he recognizes Yeye wasn’t only talking about people, wasn’t only talking about Chris’s actions, but rather, something else. Entities far older, more powerful than he could imagine. Chris has suspicions about his patron; however, he wants to be completely sure before he invokes any names. The beginning of summer after sophomore year, when Yeye says, “Fortune favors you,” Chris freezes where he’s washing dishes. Yeye smiles, a sly amused thing, “You learned this now, but I think you have questions.” Chris slowly turns around and carefully chooses his words to avoid perceived insult just in case, “Yeye...I would like to show my gratitude for my good fortune. Would you help me find the correct offerings?” Yeye’s smile widens, lips peeling back to reveal teeth, “I would be honored.”

Over the next few weeks, Yeye ushers Chris around small shops in San Jose and San Francisco. They collect a shrine of trinkets, herbs, and colorful papers filled with prayers Chris writes in his best calligraphy. Yeye never says who, precisely, the shrine is for (names are dangerous to know, even more dangerous to speak), but Chris figures it out once he starts counting out nine of every prayer, nine of every herb, nine of trinket. He wonders how he, Chris Chow, caught the attention of such a deity. (He has an unconfirmed suspicion that this particular entity is much closer than he thinks.)

 _‘Húxiān,’_ Chris marvels faintly _, ‘The nine tailed fox. Trickster. Seducer. Scholar. Moralizer. I have a guardian spirit… Oh man, I have the spirit of fortune, peace, luck, and mischief protecting me. My life makes so much more, yet so much less sense.’_

Chris spends all of June absorbing each minute detail of his yeye’s stories and lessons. They are more important now than ever before. In July, he realizes he won’t be able to use a shrine at Samwell. Not with hockey. Not when they’re on the road every weekend from October to February, March if they’re fortunate. (Chris is always fortunate). He needs something portable, something private, something requiring personal sacrifice, something with enough meaning to appease an immortal. He needs to talk with yeye again.

 

* * *

 

Yeye listens as Chris explains the problem, humming over his teacup, forehead wrinkling as he thinks; Chris fidgets with his own cup, impatient and anxious. Finally, what feels like decades later, yeye nods sharply and locks his eyes onto Chris’s **_and they shift_**. _‘Ohshitohshitohshit. Yeye is Húxiān of Húxiān is yeye. I was right. Oh shit,’_ Chris panics, _‘What do I do???’_

Yeye - no - Húxiān looks entertained by Chris’s internal hysteria. They calmly finish their tea, then ask, “Are you quite done? You are hardly the first human I’ve met in person. Ha. In person. Glorious! That aside, your situation is neither unusual or unanticipated, though my solution is somewhat less unique given the current times.”

“Uh. Thank you. It’s a pleasure to meet you?” Chris’s voice shakes, “Um. What exactly was the solution?”

Húxiān’s grin is an inhuman expression of possession and predation, “Nothing much, just a marking that declares you as one of mine. Think of it as the equivalent of a tattoo. I see you have questions.”

Yes, Chris has questions, but he’s not entering this agreement blind, not after all the lessons woven into yeye’s stories, _‘Trickster. Seductor. Scholar. Moralizer. Loyal to those who have earned it. Breathe Chris. You can figure this out.’_ Chris clears his throat, “Húxiān. I invoke your name. You have guided and protected me when I was unknowing. You have accepted the offerings I have made in gratitude. I call you companion. I call you guardian. As your charge, I ask for your word. I ask for your unblemished truth.”

That same grin becomes razor edged, but their red eyes are...proud? Yeye’s voice rings out, overlaid with the echoes of the divine, “Your yeye has taught you well. My word is given.”

 

Chris breathes a sigh of relief and launches a rapid inquiry, “How precisely does the mark work? What is sacrificed for both of us? Is there more to the offering than just the mark? Is it actually a tattoo? How does it get on my body? Will other people be able to see it? Can I pick where it goes? Did you offer this to others? Why a mark? Do all of you have marks? Will I be able to see other people’s marks? Will it change me? Are you yeye or are you just borrowing his body? Does he know? Can you leave him? It’s a little weird to seeing an image of you hovering over him when I squint. How big are you? How old are you? How did you find me? Why did you choose me? How do you choose anyone? Oh! Oh! Who were some of your other charges? I bet they were ‘swawesome. Do I get any-”

Húxiān laughs. It’s a rumbling, brassy thing too big for the body it came from, “I would say slow down, but you always were a curious one. I cannot and will not answer all of your questions; however, the mark, well, it identifies you as mine. A divine calling card if you will. The mark itself is a contract between us - that you will continue to dedicate offerings of belief to me and I will continue to guard you. As contracts are different, so too are marks, they assume an appearance and size most appropriate for those involved. The offerings themselves are simple. Daily successes, failures, joys, irritants, sorrows. I sacrifice a bit of my essence; you sacrifice security. As for visibility, divinity recognizes divinity. Other beings and their charges will know, will sense my mark upon you. They can see it if you choose a visible location, as will untouched humans. It may also be painful initially, but that is a temporary hurt. Now, Christopher Franklin Chow, it is time for you to choose.”

Chris makes his choice.

 

* * *

 

 _It burns_. Which, honestly, Chris probably should’ve expected, but still. Chris was enthralled with the manifestation of Húxiān’s energy as nine semi-transparent tails at first. That lasted just long enough for them to shoot towards him, go through his shorts, and sink their tips into his thigh.

It doesn’t take long for the mark to be finished. As soon as Húxiān removes his tails, Chris presses the heel of his palm into his thigh, trying to remove the lingering ache. Chris is so distracted, he almost misses Húxiān fading from Yeye’s body; however, his attention is jerked back to the deity when they purposefully answer one of Chris’s earlier questions, “You asked how I found you. You know the stories - each spirit must be invited inside and for every invitation there is a price to pay.”

 

Chris shivers staring at his thigh _, ‘Yeye - what have you done? What have_ **_I_ ** _done?’_

 

* * *

 

By the time preseason starts and Chris goes back to Samwell, he’s become an expert at hiding his mark. Granted, he was smart about its location on his body, which definitely helped; however, really, Chris is a freakin’ **master** at subtle changes: tilting his body just so, picking the corner shower to ensure his left thigh faces a wall, wearing compression shorts or Under Armour at all times, explaining away his habit of tapping his thigh in goal as part of a new superstition. He probably would've gotten away with it until he graduated. Except Cait. And maybe Ford (she shimmers with _something)._ And fucking Tango.

Tango - who is untouched by divinity, but somehow sees more than he should, knows more than he should. Tango - who watches him and watches him and won’t. Stop. Watching. Him. Tango - who stares at Chris’s covered thigh in the locker room as if he can see beneath layers of cloth to skin. Tango - who sidles up next to him after their first game of the regular season, dips his eyes to glance towards Chris’s thigh and says, “Did you do anything different this summer? Training wise - I mean!” Tango - who takes what has become Chris’s corner shower a few days later and _blatantly_ stares at the mark there.

And really, honestly, Tango wouldn’t be a problem, but Chris never intended to _tell_ anyone about his tattoo. Ever. Never ever. He knew his teammates would probably catch a glimpse eventually, but how the hell is he supposed to explain getting marked by an ancient Chinese deity over summer? At most he can skirt the truth or take flying leaps to their own conclusions or, better yet, allow them to follow the assumption rule (you know, “assumptions make an ass out of you and me”). But lying? 100% bald-faced lying? Chris is soooo bad at that. They’d know immediately if he tried to tell them how he just decided to get a tattoo. Of a fox. With nine tails. Covered in masks. That looks alive. Shit. He’s so screwed when this gets out.

 

* * *

 

 _'_ _This is decidedly not ‘swawesome,’_ Chris grouches uncharitably, ducking behind a large potted plant in the comp sci building to avoid Nursey and Dex staked out where he usually exits. Again, Chris understands. Him having a tattoo is a shock. He’s broken stereotypes they unfairly placed on him, but…

Chris is really done with sneaking around campus, sleeping at Cait’s, and avoiding his teammates, his Hausmates, outside of Official Team Functions. _‘It’s been two freaking weeks. You’d think they’d understand that I don’t want to_ **_talk_ ** _about it and_ **_respect_ ** _that. But noooo. Sweet baby Chowder did something foolish. Sweet Chowder needed approval from more responsible, more mature people. My son Chowder would never do something like this!’_

Successfully having run the gauntlet back to Cait’s apartment, Chowder collapses face down onto her and Amy’s couch and screams. Ten minutes later, he’s graduated to cursing out his teammates; twenty-five minutes, tears of frustration. At the forty-five minute mark, Chris is drained. Chris, post emotional catharsis, has no more fucks to give about his friends opinions or offended feelings. Chris has settled on resignation. He’s going to call a team meeting at the Haus for tomorrow evening.

 

* * *

 

He can hear the team gathering in the living room. Chris knows he needs to go down soon. He just can’t bring himself to move from where he’s huddled in his bed squeezing a plush Sharkie. He really, really doesn’t want to do this.

 ** _*Tap. TapTapTap. Tap.*_  **A beat sounds on his door. He’s expecting Bitty, expecting coddling and protectiveness he doesn’t want right now. Chris is pleasantly surprised when it’s Ford’s voice he hears instead, “Hey Chowd- Chris. Everyone’s here. Come down when you’re ready.”

Chris croaks out an acknowledgment. Ford’s footsteps fade away, creaking on the stairwell. Has his room always been this small? This lonely? In his arms, Sharkie becomes animated.

“Christopher Franklin Chow. I chose you. I guard you. Foxes may be tricksters, but we are not without morals. I would not leave you alone in this act of courage. Even though it means inhabiting this particular body.” Chris gasps out a laugh, tightens his grip, and buries teary eyes into Sharkie’s fleece body, only to muss warm fur instead. He takes in five deep breaths, stands, and heads for the door - still carrying a Húxiān possessed Sharkie plushy. He leaves not as Chris Chow, friend and teammate, but rather Chris Chow composed and unshakable goalie.

The living room is eerily silent when Chris enters. He eschews sitting in the chair facing the green biohazard couch and plops to the floor with his back pressed to its legs. He doesn’t look up.

“Ok. So I’m going to talk and you all are going to listen **without interrupting** ,” at this, Chris briefly glares at the entire room before dropping his gaze, “I might answer your questions while I’m talking; I might not. I will not be answering anything after I finish. Understood?”

From beneath his eyelashes, Chris can see the concerned looks Bitty is sending him. The still somewhat suspicious, but mostly confused glances Nursey and Dex are exchanging. Chris closes his eyes and begins, “I have a tattoo. I received it over the summer from someone I trust. It’s important to me and highly personal. I’m asking you to respect my privacy. There’s a reason I haven’t been flashing it all around the locker room for everyone to see. It has _nothing_ to do with how much I trust you as teammates and friends and _everything_ to do with my right to keep whatever I want private with no inquisition from you all. The way I have been attacked and hounded for the last few weeks makes me angry and frustrated and **you need to stop**. I understand that some of you are concerned about me, about this particular choice. Here’s the thing - I don’t answer to any of you. I am 21 years old. I am a fully functioning adult capable of making my own mistakes, my own choices. It’s my body. My life. And my decision to keep private. I am not less mature because enthusiastic is my default setting. I am not in need of protection because I seem naive or young. If you can’t trust me to know myself or the choices I make, that’s fine. You don’t have to. But I have the right to tell you and your well-intentioned concern to fuck off. Stop harassing me. Stop ambushing me. If you don’t, I’ll take it to the coaches. If you still don’t...I’ll remove myself from the situation in any way I can - quitting the team, giving up my room, any way. Just - respect my privacy and drop it. Please.”

 

Húxiān as Sharkie sends out a pulse of warmth when Chris’s voice breaks on the last word. The pressure of tears is building behind his eyes again as he stands to leave. Everyone looks mostly sad and confused. Tango seems remorseful. Whiskey...Whiskey’s eyes are sharp and bright as he nods to Chris shattering the silence, “Your choice. I trust you.”

Whiskey’s words break the standoff and Chris finds himself in a massive group hug. Reassurances falling from multiple mouths.

“We were the definition of unchill - forgive us bro?”

“You’re our best friend, you know we’ve got your back.”

“Oh, Chowder, I’m sorry for treating you like a kid...”

“Dude.” “Bro.” “Swawesome.”

“.....bueno. Confío en ti.”

“I am surrounded by idiots. You know we’re not letting you go, right?”

“I didn’t know it was a secret! I’m sorry! It’s all my fault!”

 

* * *

 

No one expects Chowder to have a tattoo, and even if they did – **everyone** would put money on it being a shark a la the San Jose Sharks. Granted, Chris does have a tattoo of sorts, if you consider a permanent mark imprinted into the skin as if it was genetic a tattoo. However, no one would win that particular bet. You see - what if the Sharks obsession was simply a distraction, a smokescreen, a meticulously crafted trick? Afterall, sharks were not the only creatures attempting to lay claim on Christopher Franklin Chow.


	7. Connor "Whiskey" Whisk - Un Sentido Temporal de la Permanencia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Technically, all tattoos are temporary, even permanent ones." - Mokokoma Mokhonoana
> 
> Tattoo: Calf – Scythe, Sugar Skull/Death, Red Ribbons
> 
> Title Translation: A Temporary Sense of Permanence
> 
> Without hockey, Connor wouldn’t be here. He _knows_ that. Just like he knows everything is temporary except for death. He just needs a reminder sometimes.
> 
>    
> Please let me know if any of my rusty Spanish is incorrect!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Self Harm/Attempted Suicide
> 
> If you or someone you know is suicidal, please talk to someone. There are resources out there for you, here are just a few:  
> • 24/7 Phone Line: 1-800-273-8255  
> • 24/7 Text Line: Text “Start” to 741-741  
> • [Suicide Prevention Lifeline](https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/)  
> • [International Crisis Centers](http://iasp.info/resources/Crisis_Centres/)  
> • [Project Semicolon](https://projectsemicolon.com/)  
> • [Trevor Project](https://www.thetrevorproject.org/#sm.000009o95dnvuxdrpsg2abopue5s8)  
> • [Other aids](https://themighty.com/suicide-prevention-resources/)

_Breathe in. Breathe out._ Stare at the brick building. _Breathe in. Breathe out._ Unclench a hand from the car door handle. _Breathe in. Breathe out_ . They don’t know you here. You’ll be fine. Jayce is here too. Just. _Breathe in. Breathe out._

"Mijo...sabes que necesitas entrar pronto.”

“Sí papá, yo sé. Necesito algunos minutos más.”

“Está bién. Te amo mijo.”

 

Without hockey, Connor wouldn’t be here. He _knows_ that. Each time he’s on the ice he tries to give it everything he has - he owes it, owes them that much. He knows he doesn't really owe hockey anything, doesn't owe his team, his familía of sweat and tears, anything, but... But Connor wants, he wants to give them every bit of himself, to scrape out his soul in gratitude. _They saved him_. There isn't enough effort, enough anything in the world to thank them for that. But Connor is going to try - over and over and over and over again. 

 

Connor grew up on the ice, mainly because his parents both played hockey in rec leagues before he was born and continued afterwards. From the time he was a newborn until around three, he gurgled and cried in the benches with whatever parent wasn’t skating. After three, they started teaching him how to skate. All he did was giggle and shriek as they towed him around - he doesn’t remember it, but there’s video evidence. He loved the ice. He _loves_ the ice.

His parents put him in Mini Mites and he kept going - Mites, Squirt, Peewee, Bantam, Midget. (Never to Juniors. Never to NTDP. He wasn’t goo- Basta! No necesito pensar como este).

Connor’s quiet. He’s shy and awkward and too serious. Yeah, he makes jokes. They’re just faint and wryly funny and made with an often unwelcome accent. He hasn’t gotten anything lower than a B+ in years and fades into the background everywhere, except when his body gets in the way. He’s only just started growing into himself. In middle and high school, he couldn’t seem to control his limbs; they were growing faster than he could relearn their limits, which became a problem for basically everything involving the use of his arms or legs. Life, it became a problem in life.

 

It wasn’t anything in particular (it was everything in particular).

 

Two days after Connor turns sixteen, he cuts himself a little too deeply and watches as blood streams spiral down his leg. He watches as his sight goes blurry.He doesn’t remember the next bit. Doesn’t remember falling to the floor. Doesn’t remember his mamá finding him. The ambulance ride. The stitches. He remembers waking up to white and beeping and a hushed conversation.

He remembers explaining that he wasn’t trying to commit suicide. The cutting was never about death. It was about exerting control on something in his life, about feeling something other than numb. He’ll never forget the way his papá looks at him when he chokes out, “Pero mijo - Qué sobre tu familía? Sobre tus sueños? Sobre hockey? En el hielo tienes control, eres alegría, estás libre. Has estado siempre libre.”

He remembers going to therapy. He remembers watching his parents go through his room, searching for anything he could use to hurt himself, taking the locks and handles off his bedroom and bathroom doors, monitoring him for a sign of something.

 

Connor goes back to school in August. Goes back to hockey with “En el hielo tienes control, eres alegría, estás libre” echoing in his ears. The team doesn’t ask why he’s stopped playing like he wants to get drafted, why he’s not as intense as he used to be. Instead, they laugh and try with him when he says he wants to do a salchow. They stay on the ice after practice to play keep away. They willingly give up their hands for him to hold as they drag him around the rink faster and faster, giggling the entire way. One day in September his best friends Haakon and Jayce ask, and Connor...Connor tells the truth. He’s immediately buried beneath a flood of bodies, voices burbling over each other, telling him with touch and tongue that he is so very loved. That he is family; they are family. Una familía por elección. He notices after that at least two guys are always within an arm's length of him, ready to dole out hugs or nudges, draw him into debates over TV shows or music. And that’s it. There’s no careful observation, no worried eyes roving over him time and again. He loves them fiercely for it. He starts playing more intensely, not for himself, but for them. He knows a few of them are still trying to get drafted into Juniors, the UTDP, the NHL. He leaves everything on the ice for them, making plays to highlight their skill, boosting his own points with assist after assist. Some of them make it. It’s enough. Connor was enough.

 

A little over a year later, his papá hands him a straight razor with a brusque, “Necesitas afeitar.” His hands tremble slightly when he takes it, fingers curled in a gentle hold. When he shaves that evening, his hands never falter. Connor stares at the man reflected under the harsh bathroom lights, cheeks wet and eyes burning with a defiance he finally understands. Estoy libre quivers in the air, a whisper, a shout, a reminder. He never tries to hurt himself again.

 

Connor _hates_ the first anniversary of The Day. His parent’s tracking him through the house all day. Someone always in his space, asking him questions about stupid shit, trying to make him forget. He doesn’t want to forget, he has never wanted to forget. In the witching hours, after everyone else is asleep, Connor leaves his lockless bedroom for the equally lockless bathroom. He flicks on the lights, pulls back the curtain to the combination shower bathtub, climbs in to sit on the tub’s edge and stares. White tiles. White porcelain. Silver fixtures. No traces of ruby red or oxidized burgundy. It’s bleached like desert bones, scrubbed clean. The pads of his fingers rhythmically stroke back and forth along the scars on his upper inner thigh, his only lasting memento. Connor keeps his eyes open and _remembers_. Goosebumps breaking out in waves. A cold blade clenched between thumb and forefinger slowly warming as is passes through skin. Three neat slices just a hair too deep that only hurt when he prods the cuts open further. Red rivers winding down his thigh and past his knee, outlining his gastrocnemius muscles, pooling in the hollow of his achilles tendon before overflowing to dye white porcelain a reddish orange then drain away. Splattered starbursts painted over and over and over and over with each droplet falling from his knee. Partial fingerprints smeared on white tile. A bid for temporary control that almost lead to permanent result.

Connor tells his parents he’s going to get a tattoo at breakfast the next morning. To mark this choice. This time. Their reaction is...not favorable. His mamá cries, quiet inhales and shaky exhales. His papá pales as Connor tries to explain.

“Mamá, necesito esto. No me dejaré olvidar otra vez.”

“¿Por qué? ¿Por qué tú querrías recordar?”

“Porque necesito elegir siempre vida. Mamá necesito recordar que todo sea temporal. Mi vida, mi cuerpo, mi dolor, mi alegría. Todo es temporal excepto muerte y no la buscaré otra vez.”

“Oh Mijo. Te amo. No entendemos, pero te amamos.”

 

Two years to The Day, Connor enters a tattoo shop with Haakon and Jayce. He leaves with a reminder permanently scarred into the flesh of his calf. The design is mostly his - red ribbons following the path his blood flowed, framing a hooded sugar skull and scythe. When Connor had explained the importance behind the images, the artist sat still for a moment looking at Connor, then asked if he had ever heard of Project Semicolon. The artist showed him the website and suggested adding semicolons to the sugar skull decorations to visually show his life, his story is not over.

 

 _Breathe in. Breathe out._ Stare at the brick building. _Breathe in. Breathe out._ Unclench a hand from the car door handle. _Breathe in. Breathe out_ . They don’t know you here. You’ll be fine. Just. _Breathe in. Breathe out._ Connor’s fingertips rub the inseam of his shorts where they bisect his scars; it’s a tell, a nervous habit he can’t seem to break. His papá’s hand covers his, squeezing gently to still it. Connor turns to face him, “Te amo papá.”

He breathes in once more, flipping his hand over to squeeze back, then pushes open the car door. Connor pulls his hand away and steps into the sunshine outside Faber.

Connor breathes out, ‘ _Todavía estoy aquí. Estoy todavía libre._ ’


	8. Kent "Parse" Parson - King of the Waste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Tattoos are a right of passage. They’re a marker of bravery, of maturity, of cultural acceptance. The tattoo represents not only a willingness to accept pain - to endure it - but a need to actively embrace it. Because life is painful - beautiful but painful…" - Nicola Barker, The Yips
> 
> Tattoo: Sleeve - Ode to the desert
> 
> At first glance, Las Vegas appears to be a wasteland, an earthbound hell. At first glance, Kent Parson appears to be a good-for-nothing celebrity scumbag. Look closer. They may surprise you.

Kent vividly remembers getting his first tattoo - a series of cacti flowering and a yucca plant. The beginning of his now completed sleeve. The beginning of the most optimal of his coping methods. He remembers the razor blade held by a stranger dragging across his arm, the astringent smell of rubbing alcohol wet against his skin, the hum of the tattoo gun laying down line after line of ink to build a desert of beauty and danger. He doesn’t remember pain. It’s probably better that way.

(Jack. June 25, 2009.

_Jack. June 25, 2009._

**_Jack_ ** _._ **_June 25, 2009._ **

.

.

.

 _I’m sorry._ )

 

In the five years since, Kent still hasn’t felt physical pain. His rookie year, Kent played through to the final with bruised ribs (last game of the regular season), a fractured foot (Round 1, Game 4), a mild concussion (Round 3, Game 1), and a knee ligament sprain (Final, Game 5). It was the knee ligament that the trainers clued in on. He might not feel the pain, but his gait was thrown off just enough the trainers wanted to check him. There was a lot of yelling after that check up, but he still went back out to play.

(“Kent. You have to tell us about injuries. It’s dangerous for you to play like this.”

“Nothing hurt! How much more damage can I do in two games? We’re winning. I’m skating.”)

 

In the five year since, Kent has never forgotten the agony of loss. Most days he wonders if he’s capable of feeling anything else.

(Kent Parson is very good at smiling for cameras. He should have been an actor.)

 

Five years ago, Kent was ready to play for an almost home team, was perfectly content to sport an Islanders jersey. Five years ago, Kent fell in hate with the desert. It didn’t belong to him. It was never supposed to be his. He wished he’d still gone second. He wished the Aces wanted Tavares instead.

(He wished Jack had… No. He is not allowed to wish _anything_ about Jack.)

 

Five years later, Kent wears the desert well enough. He has a far greater appreciation for how it hides threats beneath a veneer of beauty. How it has mastered hiding splendor beneath unforgiving conditions. Kent understands the desert better now.

(He learned from the best. Nothing, nowhere is better at protecting itself than the desert.)

 

Kent crafted Parse, an easygoing dudebro personality, and wrapped it around himself like armor, became deft at hiding his on ice skill behind the growing legend of his off ice exploits. He kept soft parts of himself (C’mon Kenny, one more round. I swear I can get them all this time!) buried like sunken treasure. He may be a wasteland, but to the outside world - well, his life looks a lot like paradise.

(Won the _Calder_ , won _the_ Stanley Cup.

Lost Jack.

Disguised his demons as poisonous creatures.

Won the Stanley cup as _captain_.

Lost Jack.

Added skulls and more cacti.

Went to the _Olympics_.

Put the fucking rings on his ass because fuck you Jack. You don’t get to take this too.

Lost Jack.)

 

 

Five years later, Kent has a completed sleeve. Blooming flowers hide cacti spines. Sand and shadows contort into animalistic figures. Sun bleached animal skulls conceal the curves of a rattlesnake. An siren’s mix of death and allure. And if the rattlesnake happens to have blue eyes, happens to have markings that resemble a #1… Well, Kent may not be religious, but he’s lived this story.

At first glance, Las Vegas appears to be a wasteland, an earthbound hell. At first glance, Kent Parson appears to be a good-for-nothing celebrity scumbag.

(But look a little closer, closer than that, and you might see something staring else back.)


End file.
